


On Thin Ice

by KreweOfImp



Series: Let It Snow [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Brat Dean, Butt Plugs, Castiel Is So Done, Dean is a Little Shit, Dom Castiel/Sub Dean Winchester, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Humiliation, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Snowbound, Sam Is So Done, Seriously I'd Have Kicked Dean's Ass Too, Spanking, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7469130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KreweOfImp/pseuds/KreweOfImp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months before a record-breaking blizzard blanketed the Men of Letters bunker and trapped Team Free Will, the very first snow of the season fell in Lebanon Kansas, and a certain hunter's natural exuberance vented itself in an impressive amount of mischief.</p><p>The kind of mischief that would thoroughly strain even the patience of a saint.</p><p>Or an angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Thin Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dangerousnotbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/gifts).



> In this week a certain number of years ago, (and no, I'm not gonna tell you how many, you nosy bastards) in a galaxy right here, one of my favorite humans came into this world. This fact makes me extremely happy, and clearly needs to be celebrated far and wide. I wanted to give said human something amazing for her birthday, and since Jensen Ackles is not currently for sale, I decided to go with filthy, kinky smut (since it's kind of what I'm best at).
> 
> It just so happens that four months ago, [Dangerousnotbroken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken) was beta-reading Chapter 33 of Snowbound, and latched onto what was at the time nothing more than a throwaway line. She was highly offended that I had referenced something particularly titillating without actually writing the scene in question. I filed this information away for later. Now, for her birthday, I have remedied this oversight (which, incidentally, means that you know who you have to thank for our very first return to the Let It Snow 'verse since Snowbound wrapped up).
> 
> My dear N: I love you oodles, my friend. Happy, happy birthday. Here's to many more years of friendship, here's to our DCBB, here's to NOLA Con, here's to you and everything that you are. I am so lucky that you came into my life (HASHTAG BLESSED)!

Even Dean has to admit that he’s been in rare form today.  In general, he’s usually a pretty laid back guy, but every now and then he gets into a mood—not a bad one, mind, more of a…mischievous one.  A number of his and Sam’s most epic prank wars have begun with one of these moods, and while it’s been months since the last time Dean felt this particular itch, its appearance today was probably fairly predictable.

See, the first snow of the year fell last night.  Barely mid-October and snowfall already!  Meteorologists have been predicting the 2015-2016 winter is gonna be particularly brutal for snowfall (something about La Niña or El Niño or El Hermano or something or the other…?  Sam told him, but Dean wasn’t really paying attention), so it’s not a huge surprise that it’s started early, but he’s still excited.  It was just a dusting, no more than half an inch, but something about snow always brings out an almost child-like exuberance in him.

So, yeah, he’s been pushing boundaries all day.  He’s messed up poor Sam’s hair about six times, and would’ve gone for a seventh if Sam wasn’t starting to get that murderous look in his eye.  He spent an hour muttering “that’s what she said” after literally every sentence Cas spoke, whether or not it made any sense.  He’s managed to come up with _four_ puns, all of which were truly terrible.  He ‘accidentally’ dropped a book under the table while Sam and Cas were doing some research (he made sure it wasn’t one of the old and priceless ones; he’s not _suicidal),_ then tied Cas’s shoelaces together when he bent down to pick it up.  Then he asked Cas to grab him a glass of water, watched him predictably faceplant, and laughed so hard that he nearly toppled out of his own chair.

Apparently, that was the last straw.  Cas has been giving him That Look since the second pun, so Dean supposes he really shouldn’t be surprised that as soon as Cas gets his shoelaces sorted out (Sam is kind enough to retie them for him; in the past couple years Cas has become incredibly skilled at all sorts of knots, including some seriously complicated bondage ones, but somehow he still manages to fuck up tying his shoelaces every time.  It’s the damnedest thing), he wraps one hand around Dean’s bicep in an iron grip and jerks him out of his chair.

“Godspeed,” Sam says, not looking up from the book he has reburied himself in, “and don’t go easy on him, Cas.”

“Oh, I have no intention of doing so,” Cas says ominously, and hauls Dean down the hall and into his bedroom.  Dean goes without _too_ much of a fight, although he does do a bit of foot-dragging and whining along the way.

“Whaaaaat?” He demands, as if he doesn’t know _exactly_ ‘what,’ “I didn’t do anything!”

“Oh, to be sure,” Cas says, deeply unimpressed, “nothing except spending the day pushing as many buttons as you could find.  Indeed, I think you may have even created new buttons, which would be impressive if it were not so infuriating.”

“Cas!” Dean exclaims, delighted, “you totally just used ‘pushing buttons’ correctly!  Last time you told me I was unbuttoning!”  He loves Cas, but idioms are most definitely not his strong suit, bless him.

“As it happens, I am capable of learning,” Cas tells him flatly, “and now we will determine whether the same can be said of you.”

Five minutes later finds Cas seated solidly on the edge of Dean’s bed with Dean draped across his lap, one hand planted firmly at the small of his back to keep him in place.  Cas unfastened Dean’s jeans before upending him, so it’s the work of a few seconds for him to jerk said jeans down to Dean’s ankles.  That’s when he discovers that Dean has foregone his usual boxers today in favor of a pair of silky black lace-trimmed panties.  Generally, this is enough to send Cas into a frenzy, but today he doesn’t even remark upon them, merely tugs them down to join Dean’s jeans.

“It seems to me,” Cas tells him, smoothing his right palm over the as yet unmarred skin of Dean’s ass and causing him to shiver a little, “that you have managed to raise the bar impressively on your capacity for ‘bratting.’  We will just have to see whether I can rise to the challenge.”  There’s something indefinable in his voice that makes Dean slightly uneasy, even as it makes his cock plump up against Cas’s thigh.

“Hey, now,” Dean tells him, “let’s not be too hasty, I—“ He doesn’t get to finish that thought, as Cas’s hand draws back only to return with considerable speed, forcing the breath from Dean in a huff of air.  Cas doesn’t give him time to regroup and open his mouth again (because let’s face it, in Dean’s current mood, he most definitely would’ve), merely sets to his task with great dedication.

His palm, which somehow manages to feel more like a brick wall than flesh in moments like these (can angel mojo actually make a body less yielding?  It’s an interesting question, or it would be if Dean had room to wonder about such things right now), descends with remarkable speed and force, covering every millimeter of Dean’s ass and thighs from top to bottom before starting right back at the beginning.  Within ten minutes Dean is kicking and squirming, little grunts only interrupted by his whining.  And, yeah, he’s definitely whining.  Even he has to admit it.

“Caaaaaas,” he says, “c’mooooon, I get it, that’s enough, you don’t have to be a—“

“Yes?” Cas interrupts, voice snapping out at least as sharply as the crack of his hand, which delivers a flurry of swats precisely where Dean’s thighs meet his ass, “I do not have to be a what, Dean?  I am eager to hear you finish that thought.”  The warning in his voice is so clear it’s practically surrounded by neon lights, and this is definitely where Dean should back down, but as long as he’s going to be a brat, he might as well go for broke.

“A butthead,” he declares definitively, “you don’t have to be a butthead.” 

There is a moment of silence.  Even that incredibly hard hand stills in its metronomic rise and fall.  Dean has the distinct sense that Cas is employing massive force of will to refrain from laughing at the unexpected and admittedly childish insult.

For a second, Dean even thinks that the laugh he just gave Cas (no matter how well-concealed) might have dimmed his ire enough to call a premature halt to the spanking so they can get on with fucking each other’s brains out.  After all, a good thirty seconds go by without the crack of flesh on flesh, and when Cas’s hand does return, it smooths almost delicately across the curve of Dean’s stinging ass.

“A butthead,” Cas says, voice flat and perfectly controlled.  It’s not exactly a question, but he’s clearly seeking confirmation that he heard Dean right, despite the fact that his hearing is literally superhuman.

“Uh huh,” Dean confirms, “A butthead.  Distant relative of the elusive assbutt.”

There’s another long moment of silence.  Crap, did he offend Cas?  The angel still gets kind of defensive of that particular moment, no matter how often Dean tells him that it was fucking glorious.

A moment later, a hand closes firmly around the scruff of Dean’s neck, hauling him off of Cas’s knees and upright.  Cas rises at the same time, until they are nose-to-nose.  His voice is cool, expression unreadable.  “On your knees,” he tells Dean smoothly, “bent over the end of the bed.”

Dean is only too eager to comply.  Hell yeah, they can move on to the sex.  Honestly, that was a much milder spanking than what he’d been expecting when Cas dragged him in here, considering how thoroughly irritating he’s been all day.  Dean’s ass is stinging, yeah, but in that pleasantly tingly way.  From his position bent over the end of the bed, Dean can hear Cas slide open the drawer that holds most of their arsenal of sex toys and the like.  For half a second, he wonders why Cas opted to go for the lube in there rather than just grabbing the bottle in the bedside table.  Maybe he wanted to grab the silicone-based stuff?  If he’s planning on particularly long or enthusiastic sex, the silicone lasts longer.

He doesn’t have long to philosophize about lube options before Cas is behind him, and Dean feels the fabric of suit pants lightly brushing the back of his thighs as Cas steps between his legs and nudges them wider.  The click of a cap is shortly followed by a pair of fingers generously coated with lube probing briefly between Dean’s cheeks before sliding home.  Dean takes in a quick breath, back arching a little to open himself up and press himself back into the invading digits, but they don’t stay long.  Their withdrawal is followed by a slick sound, which Dean was expecting, but it’s a little off.  It doesn’t sound quite like lube being slicked over flesh, it sounds more like—holy shit.

Yeah, not flesh.  Dean knows this because he feels the well-lubricated tip of a plug poised at his entrance.  He doesn’t have enough time to really process this before Cas has used his free hand to part Dean’s cheeks, easing the rather large plug’s entrance.

The burn is intense but far from unbearable, and Dean can feel his muscles flexing around the intruder as they attempt to adjust.  The base of the plug nestles neatly between his cheeks, and he’s still breathing through that shock of penetration when Cas seizes the scruff of his neck and hauls him to his feet again.  He settles right back in his previous spot, seated on the edge of the bed, and Dean has only a second to register that he read this situation way wrong if he thought Cas was letting him off easy or early before he is being upended once more.

“A little—or not-so-little, as the case may be—something to help keep your mind on _your_ butt, rather than mine.  Or,” Cas adds, after a moment’s pause, “my head.”

“C’mon, Caaaaassss,” Dean whines, nothing daunted, “don’t you have a sense of humor?”

“You have been known to observe many times that I do not.  While I take leave to disagree with that particular sentiment, it seems that in this particular instance you are right.  I do not find your behavior today amusing, I find it insufferable and childish.  And if you insist upon acting like a spoiled brat, I am only too happy to treat you like one.”

That’s all the warning Dean gets before Cas’s palm returns to its briefly interrupted task, applying itself with renewed vigor.  Within moments Dean is wriggling again, his body jerking sharply whenever Cas’s hand falls directly atop the base of the plug.

His cock, rock hard and throbbing against the soft fabric of Cas’s suit pants, should be enough to put to rest any implications of Dean being child-like in any way, but he’s got just enough of a sense of self-preservation not to say so.

Fifteen minutes later (as the clock on his bureau reliably informs him), Dean is starting to think that maybe he actually pushed the brattiness just a little too far today.  Cas has devoted most of that time to actual spanking with minimal lecturing or rubbing mixed in, and while fifteen minutes might not be a long time to exercise or wait for food, it’s a long fucking time to get your ass heated up by your distinctly unamused boyfriend.  Dean is squirming in earnest now, and he even tossed a hand back to try to cover up a few minutes ago.  It didn’t do any goddamn good—it never does—and now Cas has the culprit pinned at the small of Dean’s back, giving him even less wiggle room (in the literal sense) than he had before.

“Okay, okay!” Dean finally yelps, eyes actually tearing a little, “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry I was a dick!”

“You’re sorry you were a what, now?”

“An asshole?”

Cas lays down ten solid smacks to Dean’s sit spot in rapid succession, leaving Dean frantically clenching his butt cheeks to try to mitigate the sting, for all the good it does.  “You’re sorry you were a what, Dean?” Cas inquires again, clearly looking for something specific.

“…a butthead?”

Cas doesn’t quite manage to completely muffle his snort of amusement, but his appreciation for Dean’s sense of humor doesn’t inspire mercy in him.  This time he forcibly parts Dean’s legs and delivers another six swats to the tender flesh of his inner thighs.  Dean whimpers, finally conceding and giving Cas what he obviously wants.

“Okayokayokay, stop!  Stop, I’m sorry I was a brat!”

There’s a moment of silence and Dean cringes in anticipation of spanks that don’t come.  After a moment, Cas’s hand settles lightly onto Dean’s ass and begins to rub some of the sting away.  “Indeed you were.  And what manner of brat were you acting like, Dean?”

There’s definitely only one right answer to _this_ question, too.  Dean knows what it is and although he’s not crazy about it, he’s also not foolish enough to argue or delay further, especially when Cas is using that ‘I could always get the hairbrush’ tone of voice.  So Dean sighs, makes a face Cas thankfully can’t see, and gives the expected answer.  “I was being a spoiled brat.”

“Quite,” Cas says, “and what do spoiled brats need?”

Shit.  The answer to this one is not quite as clear, but Dean goes for the old standard and hopes for the best.  “They need…a spanking?”

Cas’s hand pauses its rubbing and Dean cringes, waiting for the spanking to start up again, but it doesn’t.  Instead, deft fingers lightly prod at the base of the plug, earning a groan.  Cas makes a thoughtful sound in response, then twists the plug.  Dean gasps in a breath at the friction against his prostate (not to mention the renewed awareness of how stretched he is) and has to force himself to focus on Cas’s words.  “Spanking is certainly one of the things that they need,” he muses, and Dean’s eyes widen.  _One_ of the things?  That doesn’t seem to bode well.  He wants to speak up, to demand what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but since it’s at least partly his mouth that got him into this mess, he keeps a handle on it for the moment and waits.  After a brief pause—probably to see whether Dean will take the bait—Cas continues, “but overall, in a more general sense, spoiled brats need to be taken down a peg or two.”

“What—what does that mean?” Dean blurts, unable to restrain himself.  The low chuckle from above doesn’t exactly soothe his apprehension.

“And,” Cas continues as if Dean hadn’t spoken, “particularly after a good spanking, naughty boys need time to think about what they’ve done, and how they are expected to behave in the future.”

“O…kay?”’ Dean says, still completely mystified as to where this is going.

“Up,” Cas says, patting Dean’s ass firmly enough to make him gasp.  He gets the hell up, though, since taking his sweet time about it has more than once led to Cas deciding that he must want more time over his knee.

Under ordinary circumstances, this is where Cas would be bending Dean over and fucking him into next week, but Dean has the sinking sensation that’s not on the agenda, or at least not yet.  Cas takes his time in standing, his eyes locked on Dean’s, and there’s a slightly amused expression on his face that can only be described as ominous.  Dean actually takes a single step back from Cas, but he doesn’t get any further than that before the angel grasps the scruff of his neck in one hand and his bicep in the other, marching him directly over to the corner of his room.  Dean stumbles a little over his own pants and panties, which are still puddled around his ankles, but Cas’s grip is firm and he wouldn’t let Dean fall anyway.  He doesn’t let go until Dean’s nose is barely an inch from the actual wall.

“You will remain there and think about your behavior until I give you permission to leave,” he murmurs directly in Dean’s ear, sending gooseflesh racing down that side of his body.

It’s probably halfway because of that amazing ear-murmuring thing (it always seems to get Dean), and halfway from pure, unadulterated shock, but it takes Dean at least thirty seconds to get his wits about him enough to realize that Cas has just told him to _stand in the fucking corner_ like a five-year-old.

Oh, _hell_ no.

He whirls around to find Cas standing maybe five feet behind him, arms crossed over his chest, an expression on his face that says he was waiting patiently for this explosion.  He was expecting this?  Fine, Dean won’t disappoint him.

“What the _fuck,”_ he demands, “ _NOT COOL,_ Cas, there is no way in hell I’m standing in the corner like some—“

“—naughty boy?  Spoiled brat?”

Dean splutters eloquently.  “That is just—that is completely beside the—you are totally out of—I mean, how can you even—“

“I just heard a good many things, but nothing that convinces me to end this.  Naughty boys do not speak during corner time, or they may find themselves wishing they had not.  Consider your time in the corner doubled.  Now turn around and face the wall,” Cas finishes, an undercurrent of steel in his voice that says quite clearly that Dean is _going_ to spend the expected time in the corner one way or another, unless he’d care to use his safeword.

As it happens, he wouldn’t care to.  He’s horrified, yeah, and totally offended, and disgusted, and also about as humiliated as he’s ever been in his life, and this is bullshit, and he’s totally not at all turned on by it, really he’s not, and—where was he going with this?

Oh, yeah, safeword.  So—yeah, all that is true, but he’s definitely not going to safeword.  Because that would be letting Cas win.  Or something.

Under the weight of that baleful stare, Dean swivels back around to face the corner, clenching his hands into fists. 

This time he doesn’t even make it twenty seconds before he’s looking back over his shoulder again.  “Cas, come on, this is completely ridiculous, I don’t—“ that’s as far as he gets, because the second he opened his mouth Cas started moving toward him.  Dean’s objections are silenced the moment Cas reaches him, grabbing his arm and hauling him just far enough out of the corner to bend him over.  Cas literally tucks Dean under his arm, and just the strength in that arm is more than enough to hold Dean immobile despite the attempts he makes to twist away.  He knows damn well what’s coming, and you’d better believe if he could, he’d be making a break for it.

As it happens, he’s right.  Cas’s hand, which has already seen a fair amount of action today, gets right back to work cracking against Dean’s ass and thighs mercilessly.  The smacks fall hard and fast and with little rhyme or reason, and Dean is whimpering and pleading for mercy by the time Cas hits twenty.  “Ow ow ow ow, Cas, okay, please, I’m sorry, I’ll do it, I’m sorry, ow, shit, _Cas!”_

Cas is unmoved, as usual, and it’s gotta be another twenty smacks (complete with Dean’s continued pleas) before he halts and stands a decidedly teary-eyed Dean back up.  Cas crouches as Dean sniffles and blinks hard, reaching down and snagging Dean’s panties, neatly tugging them back up to his thighs.  Dean blinks a few times, completely bewildered, but Cas doesn’t pull them the rest of the way up.  No, instead he tangles one hand in the back of them and in one smooth, brutal motion, literally tears them off of Dean.

Dean’s jaw drops in astonishment, and Cas uses the opportunity to ball what’s left of the panties up and neatly insert them into Dean’s mouth, effectively gagging him.  Dean goggles at him, too shocked to do more than stare and make one or two abortive, muffled sounds.

Cas steps forward then, crowding into Dean’s space, seizing one of his arms to prevent him from backing away.  “Take those out of your mouth, turn around again, leave the corner, try to argue with me, and we can start your spanking over again from the beginning.  And _then_ you will serve your corner time.  Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Blinking hard to keep any actual tears at bay, Dean nods hastily.  Oh, yeah, Cas is crystal clear. 

With a single nod, Cas uses his grip on Dean’s arm to return him bodily to the corner in question before backing away once more.

“Hands clasped behind your back, please,” he says, as if it’s a request and not an order.  Dean doesn’t call him on it, partially because he’s got panties in his mouth, and partially because he’s got at least some sense of self-preservation.  He hesitates for just a moment, but any last illusions Dean is harboring about further rebellion are neatly put to rest when he hears a heavy footfall behind him.  Since Cas is easily capable of moving in perfect silence, this is clearly a deliberate sound.  A sound with purpose.

That purpose is to menace, and it succeeds.  Before Cas can make it another step, Dean’s hands have practically levitated to the small of his back where he clasps them primly, as if to silently announce that of _course,_ he always had every intention of obeying.

The soft snort from behind him makes it clear that Cas is entirely unconvinced, and Dean bristles a little despite the fact that his innocent demeanor is, in fact, completely feigned.

Dean is pretty sure he’s supposed to ‘think about what he’s done.’  He thinks he remembers Cas saying something like that.  And probably, given how thoroughly the angel has clearly Had It with Dean, he ought to be doing exactly what he’s told.

Instead, he devotes the first five minutes or so to some serious sulking.  His ass is on fire, he’s got what feels like the biggest buttplug they own buried to the hilt inside him, and his saliva is soaking through the tattered remnants of what _was_ a perfectly lovely pair of panties ten minutes ago and is now a thoroughly serviceable gag.  Of _course_ he’s sulking; this is some humiliating bullshit.

Then again, this is some seriously humiliating bullshit, and despite his huffiness, Dean has pretty much never been harder.  He’s actually steadily leaking precome, which is not exactly something he normally does—especially since nobody’s even laid a single finger on his cock yet.  So, yeah, it’s possible that just a little bit of his sulking stems from the fact that he can’t actually remember ever being more turned on in his life.

Yeah, he’s a kinky fucker.  He’s known this about himself for quite some time.  He likes to be dominated and spanked and fucked hard.  Few things turn his crank as much as getting manhandled and bossed around and tied up and used for Cas’s pleasure.  And he’s largely at peace with all of that.  It is what it is, he likes what he likes, he has a partner who loves it every bit as much as he does, and what the fuck does the rest of the world matter?

Dean has actually been quite proud of the steps he’s taken toward self-acceptance over the past six months or so.  He’s started really just letting himself enjoy it, letting go of the guilt and self-disgust over the fact that he, Dean Winchester, man’s man and all around badass, really fucking loves being made to submit.

Apparently, there are still a few bridges to cross on the road to self-acceptance, because the realization that he’s actually teetering embarrassingly close to the brink of orgasm horrifies Dean about twelve times as much as the fact that he’s been forced into this shameful position in the first place.

He cannot, cannot, _cannot_ come.  He absolutely cannot be brought to orgasm solely by the combination of his throbbing ass clenching around a plug, his panties stuffed into his mouth, the heavy eyes of his very in-control Dom on his back, and the titillating shame of the above.  First of all, he’d never live it down.  Cas wouldn’t ever mock him for it or anything, but he’d make damn sure Dean spends a hell of a lot more time in the corner moving forward.

Then there’s the fact that this is clearly still intended to be a punishment, and he’s not supposed to come without permission during punishments.  He’s not sure what Cas will do if he does just give in and shoot his load up against the wall, but he feels fairly confident he won’t like it much (or he will, but he won’t like that he likes it—and _yes,_ that’s totally a thing).  It’ll probably involve Dean’s ass and something even harder than Cas’s hand, or maybe even more corner time, or God forbid the cock cage (and fuck everything about that thing.  Twice.  Sideways.  In the ear.  With a cactus).  Anyway, it’s not an option.  He absolutely cannot come.

Cas doesn’t seem to have gotten this memo, because a few moments later he tsks behind Dean.  “Now that isn’t so hard, is it?  I knew you could be a good boy for me,” he practically purrs, “and had you just been my good boy and stood in the corner when you were told, you would be done with your corner time now.  Instead that blushing bottom has another twenty minutes to go.”

This is the first time it occurs to Dean that the panties gagging him might actually be a kindness, because he would definitely be saying some ill-advised things if they weren’t blocking traffic.  As it is, all he can manage is a sort of muffled whimper, because if Cas doesn’t actually want him to shoot off against the fucking wall, he’s doing a lousy job of showing it.

“Mmm,” Cas hums appreciatively, “that is a truly lovely sound.  Much better than all that shrill whining.  Perhaps I ought to keep you nicely gagged with a pair of your own panties all the time.”

Dean’s fingers clench convulsively around each other where they are clasped behind his back, and if he didn’t know that the pitiful little pleading sound leaking around the panties was coming from him, there’s no way he would believe it.

Cas offers no response to this small sound beyond another one of those soft, dark chuckles.  Dean can see in his mind the coolly amused expression that accompanies that laugh, and his cock gives a little twitch at the image.

Silence reigns for another few minutes and just as Dean starts to zone out, that implacable voice sounds again, closer this time.  Dean startles a little, inhaling sharply.

“When you act out like an adult,” Cas says, “I will punish you like an adult.  When you act like a snot-nosed brat, I will punish you like one…” There’s a brief pause, but something indefinable in the air tells Dean that Cas is not done speaking.  A second later Cas finishes his sentence, but this time the words are spoken directly into Dean’s ear.  “…well, mostly.” 

The words are accompanied by a single firm swat that falls directly across the center of his ass, deliberately jarring the plug.  Dean gasps hard enough that he’s probably lucky he didn’t accidentally inhale the damn panties.  He’s unable to stifle the little groan as gooseflesh skates down his spine and stipples his bare ass and legs.  Christ, is Cas an angel or a fucking ninja?

He gets the point well enough—the corner time is a direct response to the fact that Dean was pulling childish pranks all day.  Act like a bratty kid, get treated like a bratty kid.  Sort of.  Obviously there are plenty of things about this (the plug in question comes to mind) that are most definitely Not Suitable For Children—but that doesn’t dim the impact.  It’s humiliating as hell to be treated like the naughty little boy Cas called him.  The fact that Dean actually had to dig his fingernails into his own palm (a pain that does not arouse) in order to prevent himself from spurting all over the wall thanks to that swat pretty much only multiplies the humiliation.

And Cas knows it.  Cas _always_ knows.  He is acutely aware of exactly what this is doing to Dean, and he’s filing it all away for later inside his unfathomable mind.  The angel has a veritable database of exactly how Dean reacts to pretty much everything Cas has ever done to him (Dean asked once, mostly joking, and Cas quite seriously confirmed it to be true), and it makes him at least twice as dangerous as he would otherwise be. 

The silence stretches out again.  Dean doesn’t dare move, despite how desperately he wants to arch his back and push his ass out.  Cas can’t be more than an inch or two away.  It would be so simple to press his throbbing backside into the angel’s groin, and oh, does he want to.

But it wouldn’t end well.  Dean’s not a slow learner, despite all evidence to the contrary, and he can easily deduce that, rather than enticing Cas into fucking him immediately, he’d probably just end up tucked under his arm for another impromptu spanking before starting his corner time over again.

So he waits, motionless, closing his eyes and trying to go to his happy place (whatever the fuck that is). 

It doesn’t work.

Cas’s presence, so close behind him, brings an immediacy to the situation that keeps Dean from zoning out or getting distracted.  He is fully in the present, his entire being wrapped up in the sting of his ass and the saliva-soaked silk and lace in his mouth and the plug buried between his cheeks, and maybe most of all, the way he is trapped between the cold, featureless wall a few scant inches in front of him and the warm but equally unyielding Dom just behind him.

Perhaps another five minutes tick by.  Dean is…he can’t quite classify what he is.  He should be practically vibrating with tension, muscles coiled tighter than a bowstring—and he _is_ on high alert…but it’s more than that.  He’s also falling.  He’s falling into the moment and the sensations.  He’s falling fully into the shame he’s feeling and the forbidden thrill that follows on its heels.

He’s not sure how it happens, but damned if Dean doesn’t lose track of time, because he has absolutely no sense of how long he’s been in the corner when suddenly there are fingers, firm as iron bands, wrapping around his wrists.  Dean jumps in surprise and Cas’s hands tighten a little, squeezing almost painfully.  Dean gets the message and goes unnaturally still.  After a momentary pause, the pressure around his wrists eases just a bit, back to its original (and still unyielding) grasp.  Slowly, deliberately, Cas draws Dean’s hands apart and back around to his front, then presses them up against the wall somewhat more than shoulder-width apart, at about mid-chest level.

Cas’s lips literally brush Dean’s ear in the moment before he speaks, and this time his tone is not that of the calm, controlled disciplinarian.  This time, he _growls._ There is something incredibly feral in the sound, and Dean feels his heart rate, which had slowed somewhat as he drifted, kick back up into high gear.  “Keep them there,” Cas orders, and Dean feels more bound by those three simple words than he did the last time Cas wrapped both of his arms in what had to be six or seven feet of elaborately knotted rope.

Then the warm presence of the angel at his back, which Dean didn’t realize he’d grown so accustomed to, eases away.  Dean is a little relieved a moment later when he realizes as Cas speaks that he didn’t go far.

“Arch your back.  Stick that ass out.”  The orders are terse, snapping through the air more sharply than the crack of a whip.  Dean whimpers a little through the panties, torn between terror and half-unwilling desire.  What is Cas up to?  Is he in more trouble?  What did he do wrong?  Was it the drifting?  Does Cas know that he lost track of time, that he didn’t remain entirely focused on his bad behavior?  Oh, God, what else can he possibly be planning?  He’s had Dean with his face in a corner for what has to be at least a half hour, and the sharp, heavy sting in his ass has faded to a deep throb.  Is Cas planning on renewing the sting?

Dean’s mind doesn’t get the chance to spiral further into useless what-ifs.  It cannot have been more than five seconds since Cas spoke, but it’s long enough for him to realize that Dean did not instantly jump to obey, so the single word that follows is somehow even sharper.  _“Now,”_ Cas orders him, and Dean would have to be a much more reckless man to disobey that directive.

He arches his back and sticks his ass out, as ordered.  He’s trying to be still but it’s goddamn near impossible.  Cas’s eyes on him are as weighty as a touch, and Dean can see in his mind what he must look like, hands planted against the wall, face scarcely two or three inches away from it, bent forward from the waist, a deep arch to his spine and his red, plugged ass pressed upward and outward.  Jesus Christ.  Just the thought of it, of Cas staring at the image he presents, and Dean nearly shoots his load yet again.  He actually has to knock his head forward, letting his forehead deliberately collide with the wall in order to pull himself back off the edge. 

Almost instantly a hand tangles in the short hair at the back of his head and jerks, just once, sharply.  The message is clear:  _Don’t hurt yourself; that’s my job._

The hand is gone as swiftly as it arrived, and then Cas speaks again, his voice steely despite the brief praise.  “Good boy.  Now stick it out further.  Legs shoulder width apart.  I want that ass _presented,_ nice and proper.”

Dean whimpers again as he obeys the instructions.  He’s got no fucking clue what he’d be saying if he could speak, and he’s honestly pretty damn grateful he can’t, cause he’d probably just get himself in more trouble.

There are a few long moments of silence, and Dean tries to be still, he really does, but it’s no good.  He’s squirming restlessly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, fingers flexing pointlessly against the cool plaster of the wall.

Then, finally, Cas speaks again.  “It seems only right,” he says, and there is something sly and calculating in his voice that Dean both loves and fears, “that you should thank me for taking the time to correct you.  For putting in the effort to instruct you on appropriate behavior.  Unfortunately, thanks to your own injudicious use of it, that smart mouth is currently out of commission, leaving you unable to tell me how grateful you are.  And that, Dean,” he murmurs, slowly tracing a single finger down the back of Dean’s neck to his back, then further still, “simply will not do.”  That finger slides all the way down the small of Dean’s back to the tip of his crack, not ceasing until it rests directly atop the plug.  A heartbeat later, fingers seize the plug, unceremoniously withdrawing it from where it has nestled so snugly.

Dean’s yelp is muffled by his panties, and Cas chuckles a little.  “As lovely as the noises you make are, they are at least ten times lovelier filtered through the remnants of your own pretty panties.”

Without another word or any hint of warning, Cas’s lube-slick cock, rigid but velvety, buries itself to the hilt between Dean’s cheeks.  Dean doesn’t even try to restrain his cry as he suddenly finds the angel’s hips snugged tight against his extremely tender ass.

“You may come at any time,” Cas tells him, “as long as it is before I do.  Which does not give you long.”

If Cas is worried about whether or not Dean will make it, he needn’t be.  The cock spearing him draws back and surges forward only twice more (smacking into Dean’s ass with a meaty sound and a force that rivals that of his punishing palm) before Dean comes, streaking the wall in front of him liberally, fighting to stay on his feet under the combined force of merciless thrusts and his own powerful orgasm.

His vision and hearing both actually grey out for a few moments, and when Dean becomes aware of himself once more, Cas’s hands have closed around his hips, their grasp harsh but welcome as it prevents him from falling to his knees.  Despite his shaking limbs, Dean can’t break position.  Cas is not done with him yet.

There’s something about these moments that he loves almost more than reaching his own peak.  Something about this time in the aftermath of his climax, when Cas is still seeking his own.  Something he cannot quite describe about these endless seconds when Cas is simply _using_ Dean for his fulfillment, when Dean’s body becomes nothing but a conduit for Cas’s pleasure.  It is indescribable; it is _sublime._

Dean rocks forward and back, forward and back, hands planted solidly against the wall, his back arched and ass presented for the pounding Cas is bestowing upon him.  And pounding is the right word.

Cas fucks him mercilessly, no quarter given in acknowledgment of the fact that Dean’s ass was already swollen and painful before Cas ever drove into him, or that he’s been stretched around a plug for the last forty-five minutes, or that he is shaking like a leaf.  The fingers digging bruises into Dean’s hips hold him steady as Cas batters him.  Dean’s pretty sure his innards are going to feel like churned butter by the time Cas is through with him, but he can’t bring himself to care because it’s _so good._

It might be five minutes or five hours later that Cas’s fingers tighten past the point of real pain, just for a heartbeat, and Dean knows he’s finally there.  Sure enough, a second later Dean feels the flood of Cas’s release as the angel fucks him right through it, stilling only when he’s starting to soften. 

Cas withdraws carefully, one arm sliding around the front of Dean’s waist to hold him up as the other hand reaches around, fingers lightly prodding at Dean’s lips until he gets the message and parts them.  Cas reaches in and removes the wrecked panties, carelessly dropping them to one side.  Dean will mourn them later (they really were lovely and he only wore them the once); at the moment he can’t spare them even a thought.  His mind swims hazily, a thousand tiny—and not so tiny—aches and pains combining into an oddly pleasant cloud of throbbing soreness.

If that’s Cas’s idea of gratitude, Dean will have to make sure to thank him frequently.  With enthusiasm.

The arm around his waist is the lone reason Dean is still on his feet, and a moment later Cas removes the need for even that as he leans down and sweeps Dean into his arms.

“C’n walk,” Dean protests muzzily, and Cas laughs softly.

“You overestimate yourself.  Or possibly you underestimate my ability to reduce you to a boneless mess.”

“Not a mess,” Dean objects, then pauses and concedes, “…okay kind of a mess.  Totally still have bones though.”

“In form, yes.  In function, somewhat less so at present.”  Dean can’t quite follow the motions, but he shortly finds himself being carefully laid out on his stomach on the bed as Cas clambers up beside him.

“Cas,” he says, voice a little reedy.

“I am here, love.  Rest now.  You can tell me whatever it is later.”

“No,” he insists, “no, Cas, ‘s… _important.”_

“Very well, I am listening,” Cas tells him tenderly, and Dean can hear the intent focus behind his words.

“Cas,” he says again, quite seriously, “You’re still…a butthead.”

“Careful,” Cas murmurs, but the smile in his voice is fond as he settles Dean onto his chest, “you are still on thin ice.”

**Author's Note:**

> As a matter of interest, the inspiration for this particular filth occurs in Chapter 33 of Snowbound, entitled [The Kansas Chainsaw Massacre](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5706808/chapters/14563984) (*snickers* y'all remember that shitshow? I sure do), and is as follows:
> 
> ~*~
> 
> “Might as well not sugarcoat it. We were both there. Fuck, we were all there. Because it’s not enough for my boyfriend to witness my humiliation, my brother needs to be in on the action, too.” Okay, so maybe now that the enforced celibacy had clearly expired, Dean could kind of see the humor in his pitiful failures over the past couple days. A little.
> 
> “While I will readily agree that Sam’s presence was unwelcome—which, incidentally, is hardly a new state of affairs these days—you and I both know perfectly well that humiliation is not something that you are always averse to.”
> 
> “Cas,” Dean said patiently, “there’s kind of a huge difference between you sending me to stand in the corner wearing a butt plug with my pants around my ankles after a spanking or calling me a slut while I suck your cock, and me nearly bashing my brains out on the dresser while trying to be sexy. One of these things is not like the other.”
> 
> ~*~
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed revisiting the Let It Snow 'verse! There are more timestamps in the works--some porny, some not, and you can expect to start seeing more of them when my aforementioned Favorite Human and I finish our DCBB.


End file.
